rolineredmond@live.com, auteur op Doorson Papers

He who pays the piper calls the tune

It comes as no surprise that a curator at the exhibition devoted to slavery failed to notice the little black boy in a painting: the artist paid him little attention. Poor and insignificant people were afforded only coarse brushstrokes in Dutch paintings, unless they happened to be the subject of a portrait study. They were not what the painting or etching was about, and the artist was focused on the man with the purse: like the sugar merchant Marten Soolmans, a Flemish immigrant.

Marten Soolmans and his wife Oopjen Coppit, wealthy residents of Amsterdam, were immortalized by Rembrandt in 1634. Even the lavish decorations on the Fleming’s shoes were captured in the painting, and the portrait of his wife, who was descended from nobility, was also executed in detail, with all the necessary finery. The painting exudes wealth and prosperity, luxury and extravagance, translated into precious lace, satin, gold, silver and pearls, and then preserved in paint.

However, the correct portrayal of dark characters is less important to me than the question of how lonely the poorest immigrants of colour in Europe must have been, doubly migrated as they sometimes were: from Africa to the West and then back to the cold Netherlands. As the descendant of enslaved people, you look at these status-enhancing servants of the plantation elite, the futuboi, differently. The main task of these jack-of-all-trades was to keep the master happy. How alone these children must have felt. They would never see their parents again. Who comforted them? Would they find a patient barber who wouldn’t abhor the “wool” like a black sheep’s on their heads? Were they stared at? called names? What I sense is the utter loneliness of a child with heavy responsibilities. In the West, the – also unseen – conterparts of the European domestic servants and knaves spent six long days a week cutting sugar cane in the blazing sun. Marten and Oopjen were able to leave us these impressive paintings with the proceeds of the sugar.

The unseen slave

I search and find another painting of a Dutch merchant with a slave. According to the caption, the scene is set in Dutch Guiana. But this is not the Paramaribo waterfront. With the branch in the river, it looks more like the harbour of the town of Nieuw Amsterdam on the river Berbice in present-day Guyana, which was founded by the Zeelanders in 1627 and was in Dutch hands until 1815. The plantation owners Dessé in my book The Doorsons transported their products from Nieuw Rotterdam in the Nickerie district in Surinam to Nieuw Amsterdam for sale in other countries.

The slave boy – it could also be a young girl – is depicted in less detail than his master. And the ‘richly decorated’ ribbons around his waist, as the caption states, consist of a strip of printed fabric. The spangles the slaves wore around their ankles and upper arms—the Maroons of my youth still did—were made of metal, usually copper. Slaves did not possess gold jewellery. If there was a gold collar, the symbol of possession, then the wearer would have been obliged to return it to the owner.

What creates more meaning is the fact that the child is almost naked, which serves to accentuate the rich and elaborate garments worn by the master, because as mentioned, it is he who pays the bill. The merchant or planter is in full dress, even with a wig. He points with satisfaction to his merchandise: the barrels of sugar, rum and molasses.

Around 1800, Surinamese house slaves were fully clothed when in the presence of the master, such as on their way to church. That suggests that they had come to be seen a little less as an object. This lad, depicted with ornaments for the occasion, is doubly disadvantaged. He is in no position to pay because as the owner’s property he is poor, and he is yet to acquire the status of a man. And from that point of view, you can see a simple strip of cloth around the loin as a rich decoration.

The face of black royalty: a West African boy

On my desk are pictures of three boys. I may come to talk about the other two someday, but the appearance of the child in the accompanying photo (N.J. Wosu Picture Cards), is how I would wish all children to look. The times when I look at this photo are my most hopeful moments.

I bought the photo of the boy with the coral cord in an African-American bookstore in New York that had a wide selection of Kwanzaa cards. Kwanzaa, a new, religion-transcending festival in which seven candles represent seven days and virtues, is widely celebrated among black people in the US: American and African. It is a festival of life and it lasts a full week: from December 26 to January 1.

I enjoy the serene gaze, the regal appearance. Then I think I understand: this child has never been laughed at for his dress style, never been a slave, never been called names because of the colour of his skin or his curly hair, because only when you are allowed to be who you are can you develop this air of confidence.

The child is a beauty in my eyes, a royal in miniature. West Africans are the best dressed people in the world. The whole family has clothes designed in the colours and fabrics of their choice, moving with dignity and with their backs straight. Memphis Depay, who is familiar with that style of dress, hadn’t counted on the reaction he would receive when he covered his head: “Mujdiehoedzien!” (which sounds like mujahideen but also like ‘look at that hat’ in Dutch) I hear a man snigger on a TV show. Clearly someone who has forgotten that, here in the Netherlands, every well-dressed man wore a hat one-and-a-half to two generations ago.

Ghanaian or Nigerian boys and girls in Amsterdam learn that it is best to stay within your own circles in a party outfit like this. You may be dressed fit for a king, but they know: to the front door and no further. If dark children survive the excesses of the Sinterklaas party, the comments about their appearance, the jokes that men write, the banana throwers in the football stands, the flawed school system, if… then they will keep that serene gaze. Otherwise, that angry look awaits them, which is the result of powerlessness.

The making of the book trailer

It was an ambitious plan: to make a trailer in English rather than the usual gallery of still photos. And I also wanted to use the medium of film to introduce some newly arranged music.

The slave song Lelu Lelu first has to be set down in musical notation. I am expertly assisted and advised by Orville Breeveld, the son of my friends the late Clarence Breeveld and Hannah Belliot. I have known Hannah ever since we were at the Hendrikschool together. The musician, composer and arranger points me to the Sibelius software.

The chosen performers are both called Salomé. Salomé G.’s parents set to work to refine the score. All the G. family members play an instrument and they practise the song together time and again. Violin teacher Johannes Lievaart adapts the register of music that sounds so totally unfamiliar to his ears. Salomé G. tirelessly rehearses the song countless times. Salomé L. takes her place at the piano and excels under the guidance of her mother, a former child piano student of the Suzuki Academy for eight years.

Meanwhile, we are busy designing the garments. The corona restrictions mean everything has to be arranged by Zoom. The measurements, which the parents themselves have to take on the basis of a sketch on paper, are adjusted repeatedly. It’s a miracle that everything fits perfectly in the end! Cheyenne Nelson, whose prize-winning modern kóto is shown in the photo, designs the costumes. She sews dozens of flowers that she cuts out of a piece of lace onto the children’s yakis. I take care of the anyisas: headscarves with a turned-up brim, decorated with beads.

For the ever-patient filmmaker Elsie Vermeer I make a mood board for the atmosphere I want to create. This is followed by the script and the graphical storyboard. Elsie suggests the magnificent library on the Neude in Utrecht as a location, where the staff provide all possible support. The girls practice their notes and I read my lines aloud one last time. The children are visibly overwhelmed by the monumental setting during the recording session. We are first-time moviemakers and enthusiastic amateurs having fun, so it didn’t turn out to be a slick professional production, but then it was never meant to be.

Orville writes on May 26, 2021: I thought it was a most appealing film, especially because the score is played by children. The creaks and screeches are simply charming, and the role the children play immediately sends a message to the readers: it is now about the next generation. Beautifully done.

Het slavenliedje Lelu Lelu moet eerst van noten worden voorzien. Hulp en adviezen krijg ik van Orville Breeveld, de zoon van mijn vrienden Clarence Breeveld, nu helaas overleden, en Hannah Belliot. Hannah ken ik al vanaf de Hendrikschool. De musicus, componist, arrangeur wijst mij op het programma Sibelius.

De naamgenootjes Salomé G. en Salomé L. gaan de muziek uitvoeren. De ouders van Salomé G. gaan aan de slag om de muzieknotatie te verfijnen. Alle leden uit het gezin G. bespelen een instrument en tal van keren spelen ze het liedje. Vioolleraar Johannes Lievaart voegt ook noten toe aan de muziek die zo heel anders klinkt dan hij gewend is. Salomé G. oefent het liedje braaf keer op keer. Salomé L. wordt achter de piano gezet en zij doet haar best onder leiding van haar moeder die als kind acht jaar lang pianolessen volgde aan de Suzuki Academie.

Tegelijk zijn we bezig met het ontwerpen van de kleding. Vanwege de coronabeperkingen gaat alles via Zoom. De kledingmaten die de ouders zelf moeten opnemen aan de hand van een voorbeeld op papier, worden telkens bijgesteld. Het is een wonder dat alles uiteindelijk precies past! Cheyenne Nelson, die een prijs won met haar moderne kóto (zie foto), ontwerpt de kostuums. Uit een lap kant knipt ze tientallen bloemetjes die ze op de yaki’s van de kinderen naait. Ik zorg voor de anyisa’s: hoofddoeken met een gevouwen rand, versierd met kralen.

Voor de geduldige filmmaakster Elsie Vermeer maak ik een moodboard om de sfeer aan te geven. Daarna volgen het script en het storyboard in de vorm van tekeningen. Als locatie suggereert Elsie de bibliotheek aan het Neude waar men alle medewerking verleent. De meisjes oefenen hun noten en ik lees mijn tekst nog eens hardop. Tijdens de opname zijn de kinderen nog steeds overweldigd door het monumentale gebouw. Het is de eerste keer dat we een filmpje maken en we zijn enthousiast maar geen profs, dus het is geen professionele trailer geworden, maar dat was ook nooit de bedoeling.

Orville schrijft op 26 mei 2021: Ik vind het een aansprekende film, vooral omdat de score (de muziek), gespeeld wordt door kinderen. De kraakjes en piepjes zijn aandoenlijk en de rol die de kinderen spelen is meteen een boodschap voor de lezers: het gaat nu om de volgende generatie.

Why the Golden Coach should stay

Submission to colonial power

This gala carriage from 1898 seems to have driven straight out of a fairy tale book about kings and princes, knights and footmen. The people of the colonies contributed to it indirectly and they were probably unaware of how they would be depicted on this awe-inspiring symbol of power. All the figures from the East and the West are carrying something. Boxes, packages, baskets of food, fruits of the field; on their backs, heads, or in their arms. They offer these to people who are exclusively white. One of the panels depicts a dark man prostrating himself before a perched, angelic white woman and a white man holding some kind of bible in his hand, both in neo-Roman costume. A dark-skinned father pushes his son gently towards the man, who is seated next to the woman. The black people humbly offer their son and their produce and, since no Surinamese slave or descendant of enslaved people would willingly prostrate themselves before another human being, also their dignity. Indeed, they do not bow to the ground even for the most highly revered ancestral souls, or Kabra.

The carriage as the centrepiece of the krutu

For all the glitter and shine that the caleche radiates, how dull ‒ figuratively speaking ‒ is the image of the colonials. Not that the people are inaccurately portrayed. The scene on the carriage speaks volumes: the role of the state, of the church, the attitude of the Dutch people.

As far as I’m concerned, the carriage isn’t going anywhere and will stay exactly where it is, complete with the panels, on the condition that various groups gather around this extravaganza at regular intervals as the centrepiece for a krutu, which is a lively conference called to thrash out an important topic. It is a tradition of the once free people – runaway slaves or Maroons – deep in the Surinamese interior. The Golden Coach should be surrounded and hemmed in, as it were, frequently, by groups of people of all kinds, to reflect on our shared history.

De koets als centrum van de krutu

Zo stralend de glitter en glans van de calèche, zo dof is het beeld ‒ figuurlijk gesproken dan ‒ van de rijksgenoten. En dat terwijl de mensen qua afbeelding nu juist goed zijn weergegeven. De schildering op de koets vat veel samen: de rol van de staat, van de kerk, de zienswijze van het Nederlandse volk.

Wat mij betreft gaat de koets nergens heen en blijft die waar die is, compleet met de panelen, op voorwaarde dat uiteenlopende groepen op gezette tijden om het glittergeval heen gaan zitten om hun krutu’s te houden. Een krutu is de term voor een palaver, overleg, discussie over een belangrijk thema, die werd gehouden door de eertijds vrije mensen ‒ gevluchte slaven of Marrons ‒ diep in het Surinaamse binnenland. De Gouden Koets dient geregeld als het ware ingesloten te worden door groepen mensen van alle signatuur die willen nadenken over onze gezamenlijke geschiedenis.

The Jewish in the Keti-koti table and the influence of the cooks

Without the work of the people in the fields and those in the households, the entire oppression system would fall apart. It was the Creole maids who ran the Jewish households. They worked there as laundresses and cooks. The latter knew all the dietary laws, went to the market for the scaly fish and cooked the kosher food. The Jewish and other wives of masters did not often go out because they met their relatives in the shul, the other women in the mikveh. They also did not have to go out into the street because the seamstress came to the house, the salesmen at the door where they did business with the housekeeper and the cook.

It is therefore these black women who have influenced Jewish cuisine in Suriname, connoisseurs as they were of all the dietary laws with their treifes. Influence, for example by pointing their employers to an alternative to the forbidden leavened bread during Passover: the cassava bread of the slaves themselves.

My grandmother was the laundress of such a family and I sometimes accompanied them. Then she exchanged recipes with the cook who was a migrant from Jamaica. She advised my grandmother to use spice blends such as jerk and old spice (lontai, allspice), the spice with the deepest flavor.

In the hall in front of the kitchen with the two counters, the two women often compared their country recipes, often dishes from Africa: ‘Ah, what you call dokoen in Suriname, is called ducannoo. It has the same composition of grated yucca and coconut.”

The slaves, and the women after 1873, were those who, apart from the culinary ‘texts’, could read the family. My grandmother could see from the laundry how her employer’s financial condition was: the quality of the clothes, the degree of wear and tear before it was given away to a poorer person, and, for example, how long the daughter would be able to go to school in a new dress on Mondays: 6 weeks long, eight weeks or less. She counted the dresses. A signifier was even the way the money was handed over to you. How did they develop this quality? Powerless as they and their ancestors were, they had learned to read the people who ruled over them. That offered some protection. When the situation in the client’s family became dire, they knew they had to look for another better-paying lady, left, thus fueling one of the many “maid stories.”

Knowledge of history makes you resilient

My mother told a lot about her childhood, such as the fact that farm workers, Portuguese from Madeira and Lebanese from a village in Syria, were poverty-stricken in her youth and as peddlers, sometimes traveling the streets with a cart to sell their wares. When things got better, they were able to turn a simple wooden house in the center of Paramaribo into a fabric store.

The poverty of migrants

The generation of my youth was not aware of this fact. When one of them, say with a common name, Nassif, told me that his family was rich and living in Paris, it was time for my wordless signify. After that, the young man never mentioned his wealthy relatives again. What was my action? Open the eyes, inhale deeply and audibly, and on the exhale, purse the lips lightly to initiate a tyuri (van Dale tjoeri) to show my disbelief and displeasure. What I said without words was: ‘’No, but…. you mean it, …? Get away with that nonsense.”

Words are not always necessary in our culture. He was also a Surinamese, understood it and kept silent in the future.

The Neneh as the hub of decision-making

No one in the Suriname of my migrant mother’s childhood had any wealth, with the exception of some descendants of slave owners: white or Jewish and the colonial Dutch elite. Moreover, I knew from the family maids themselves how the middle class was held up.

The Jewish Hugo Pos told in my book that the black Neneh in the family was always consulted on important decisions, for example about the prospective marriage partner. Not unwise, since the woman who had worked in the family for a long time knew through her network whether your fiancé was an outdoor child of your father, or whether the soon-to-be could be a half-sister of yours. She knew through her network which in-laws you would end up in and which corpses were in their closet. I did not argue with that naive young generation, but let my eyes, breath and lips speak.

The art of distributing flyers

It turns out to be quite a lot: the 1000 two-sided leaflets that I ordered from the publisher, for the elderly in my network who do not visit a bookstore or library. I have no option other than to tell the world about my work the old-fashioned way.

Within a few weeks I have become an intuitive distributor in my choice of who I decide to hand out the flyer to: selected people on the street, or a random house.

A man or woman walks towards you on the street. What do you pay attention to? Open face? Friendly appearance? Then ask if the intended recipient wants to be a recipient. ‘May I hand this to you?’ And after the nod of approval, smile kindly, grateful for the moment of contact and hand the coloured sheet with a polite gesture. But the grumpy types are also a target group, although more work is needed to make acceptance possible.

And would my one-person street distribution boost sales? No idea. But that makes it no less fun, because of the brief moment of eye contact, that fraction of a second in which you wordlessly promise to respect the other.

As for the homes, the ideal ones have generous open-plan living rooms of our people; the homes of those who seem to feel safe. First look inside. Nice interior? No-No sticker on the mailbox?

And there you go, flyer in the mailbox. Please enjoy, dear reader, I’ve already done the check for you: it looks great on your desk in terms of colour.

The most pleasant are the vertical mailboxes of the mansions with the tassels on either side. The glossy paper whizzes in silently. When the time comes that I’m no longer able to jog, I will walk a delivery round for local newsletters instead.